


go go go go

by Rag



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crockertier, F/M, Imprisonment, Noncon baby making, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 12:45:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11208366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rag/pseuds/Rag
Summary: Your name is Jake English, and you don’t know how you let things get this bad.





	go go go go

**Author's Note:**

> I don't like to make up tags but I really don't know how else to tag "noncon baby making"

Your name is Jake English, and you don’t know how you let things get this bad. The room you’re kept in isn’t terribly small, but the fact that you cannot leave it makes the 20 paces suffocating. It’s furnished, almost like a hotel. A table, a dresser, a bookshelf lined with Approved reading materials (a ghastly collection of cookbooks and tomes of horrid retellings of Her Imperial Condescension’s rise to power), a company-branded and undoubtedly monitored laptop which is so thoroughly stamped with flashing reminders to _obey, submit, obey_ that besides checking every few hours for some hint of word from Roxy or Dirk (it never comes), you prefer to look out the window. From between the metal slats in the window, you can look out over a desiccated husk of Derse, scattered with bleeding corpses of imps and agents. But you prefer to look at the bit of the sky that you can see. At night, it lights up with the speckled remains of dead and dying suns millions of miles away, and it’s a silly dream but you like to fantasize about how you might fly to one if you could just. Leave.

Lining the walls are dressers all filled with copies of the same outfit. Her favorite outfit, the one she most likes to keep you in. Her tastes are simple – a skimpy purple velvet one piece, like a warped Dersite variation on your god tier outfit, with somehow less covering your most personal areas. She took the rest of your clothing when she captured you. You wear what she allows you to wear. She told you to be glad that you’re given clothes at all, last time, and there was a glean in her eyes that made you think it was no empty threat but rather something she was actively considering. Does she want her doll clothed or naked? Does she want to see her prize when she walks in, or does she want to have to work for it, unwrap it like a package?

There’s also a bed. It takes up an absurdly high percentage of the room. Lush and ornately-decorated. You prefer the floor, because laying on the bed reminds you of everything she does on it. Jane does not appreciate this. There used to be a chair, which she had removed when she realized you were avoiding the bed. There used to be a carpet. Now you lay on the bare concrete. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s better than the alternative.

You are aware that the situation has gone completely pear-shaped. Roxy was imprisoned along with you and is somewhere in this giant castle, and neither of you had heard from Dirk for several days leading up to your capture. With each day that passes without any word from either of them, the spark in you fades. Is it ironic for the Page of Hope to so quickly become hopeless? You’re losing the ability to care. You spend most of your day dreading the moment when Jane decides to visit you or trying to gather the broken pieces of yourself after she leaves.

You used to take some small measure of comfort in the idea that maybe it wasn’t Jane you were dealing with at all, but wholly a corrupted shade of her, completely controlled by the Batterwitch. But as the days stretch into weeks and she gets more and more … liberal with her use of you, that comfort cools. It doesn’t matter to you anymore whether or not it’s Jane, because your reality is that every day, she comes in here and makes use of you and leaves you until she wants you again.

Her heels click in the hall and your skin gets clammy and cold. You want to hide, to make yourself small, but it’s no use. She wants you, and she’ll find you, and she’ll take exactly what she wants.

The door opens.

“On the floor again, Jake?” She sounds annoyed. You know the expression. Eyes sharp, arms crossed, nose raised in disgust. You don’t respond, and she walks over to you. _Click, click, click_. Her armored boots tap against the ground in front of you. “I asked you a question.” You don’t look up. You don’t want to respond. You fantasize that maybe you’re blank enough, boring enough, you’ll blend into the floor and she’ll just get bored and leave.

You see her raise her foot half a second before your mind explodes with pain. You cry out and grab your aching cheek, trying to rub the sting away, but she pulls your hair hard and forces you to look at her.

“Let’s get you up where you belong, Jake.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Up. Up. Come on.” She pulls hard and drags you up, up, come on. Pushes you onto the gold-linen comforter. Unsheathes her blood-red triple-bladed dagger from her belt and cuts your outfit open.

Part of you wants to struggle, but you can’t bring yourself to. It doesn’t change anything, it only makes it worse, she will take what she wants. The first time, you fought tooth and nail against it, argued and kicked and ran. She beat you, handily, and shackled you down. She gets what she wants. She always gets what she wants, now.

“Will you be a good boy and stay there while I undress?”

You feel yourself nod. She seems more excited than usual today, rushing into it rather than take her time with her cruel, disgusting mockery of foreplay. You hope that means it’ll be over quickly. She smiles and strokes your face, and you fight against the bile that rises in your throat. Her dark glasses project some tiny red text and a twisted version of her eyes. It doesn’t matter anymore, but you do wonder sometimes if she’s still in there somewhere, watching in abject horror as she does this over and over. Maybe she’s just as unwilling as you are.

She pulls back and slides her dress up and off her body. She’s lost weight since the Batterwitch took over her. You wonder if she’s feeding Jane, or just using her up completely, if maybe Jane will die and the AI will continue to pilot her husk as she decays. Her breasts aren’t as full as they were when she started using you like this, and they sag a bit under loosened skin. You hate yourself for noticing. You hate your body more for reacting to the sight of her skin, her curves, her breasts and pert nipples, and the certain knowledge of what comes next.

She notices. She smiles and licks her lip as she looks at your nethers.

“That’s a boy, Jake. There you are. I do so love when you don’t spend the _entire_ time acting like you’re being tortured.”

You swallow, bite down the arguments that get you nowhere. She grabs your cock, gives you a few strokes, and your body trembles in fear and pleasure. She leans over and. Uses her mouth. You turn to face the onyx-lined walls. Just lie back and let this in, let it feel good, it’ll be over sooner. You clench your fists and try not to let the damned tears fall, because she hates it when you cry. The side of your face still throbs from where she kicked you, and she’ll be more than happy to freshen up that pain if you displease her enough.

She pulls away when she’s worked you over to her satisfaction. Lays down and spreads her legs. You can smell the thick scent of the wet dripping between her legs already.

“I want to be fucked today.” She doesn’t phrase it like a request, because she doesn’t need to.

You don’t want to. You hate it enough when she rides you, but when she makes you take the lead, you just.

“Cat got your tongue? Why are you so quiet, darling?”

You take a deep breath. “I don’t know that I’m up for it today, dear.” The word is acrid in your mouth, but maybe it will make her listen to you.

Her expression hardens. “No, that won’t do.”

“Please, Jane,” you try, and your voice sounds as pathetic as you feel. The disgusting arousal in your loins is fading as weak panic takes over. “Won’t you just… how we normally do it?”

“No, Jake, because that’s not what I want. It’s not what I asked for, because it’s not what I want. And you _will_ give me what I want.”

“Perhaps you could use my mouth instead? I could pleasure you-“

“And how would we make heirs to the empire with your mouth, hmm?”

You feel sick at the mention of children. “I- Jane-“

“Shut up.”

You shut up.

She looks like she’s reading something in her glasses, but it’s so fast and small that you know you can’t begin to understand what it says. “Oh, interesting.” You don’t take the bait. You don’t want it. “It looks like Roxy is losing focus in her cell.” Your gut churns. You know this game. You hate this game. “I know of at least a few ways I can get her to focus. And!” She turns to face you, like she’s just thought of something incredible. “That could be a lovely outlet for my frustration, couldn’t it, Jake?”

You never know how serious she is, but you can do naught but err on the side of caution, because while you hate what she does to you, you hate the idea of harm coming to Roxy even more. And if you argue with Jane, she tells you all the things she could do to her with her daggers and her ropes.

 “I’m sorry, mistress Crocker.”

Her eyes narrow and she opens her legs. “Prove it.”

You know what you have to do. You take your cock in your hand and stroke it up to hardness again, trying to banish images of Roxy bleeding out and screaming in pain from your mind, screaming because you didn’t do what Jane wanted, screaming in pain because you couldn’t just fuck Jane, you pathetic-

Jane sits up and slaps you. The sound of it hurts as much as the pain, which is interesting. Neat. Cool.

“What the fuck did I say about crying when we make love?”

“I’m sorry, mistress.” You rub the stupid tears from your eyes and rub your stinging cheek and try not to think about the fact that you and Dirk would call it that - as a joke, because the term was so absurd and grand and sweeping and overdramatic. You wonder if she knows. They confiscated your phone, it wouldn’t have taken her terribly long to scan through all of your logs.

She grabs your smarting cheek and kisses you, and you try to make yourself respond to it the way she wants, like you don’t want to vomit and scream and beat her away.

You push yourself into her cunt. She moans, arches her back. It feels good, and it feels like nothing.

Part of you whispers in your ear, with her voice, that you deserve this. _You let them all down. You should have been able to prevent this. If you weren’t such a selfish, pathetic, passive ninny, things might be different. But you let us down, let me down, and now I want nothing more than to ruin you._

“Don’t wait, darling. Give it to me hard.”

You force your hips to move, mechanically. You listen to her moans and watch her grasp at the luxurious covers and demand more, more, harder. You bite your lip to keep from speaking, because she doesn’t want to hear anything from you during this, and you don’t want to say anything because you worry you might tell her how violently you hate her and hate doing this to her.

You find that you enjoy this significantly more when you indulge those thoughts. Images of wrapping your hands around her neck and choking the life from her, watching the light in her eyes fade (would it? Or was the AI all that was left of her?). It makes you buck into her harder, more earnestly, which makes her gasp and groan louder, which makes you sick. Her noises are obnoxious, gluttonous, and horrid the more she enjoys it. You hate yourself for satisfying her. You hate yourself for giving her what she wants, over and over. You hate your body for enjoying it as much as it does.

She shrieks, harpy-like, something about being close. Good. She reaches down to stroke herself. Better.

“Come inside me,” she commands.

She groans and yells as she climaxes, her back arched and brows drawn tight. Her pussy clamps around you and sends you over, and for a few blissful seconds you think of nothing. You feel good and you think of nothing.

And then it’s over. Shame rises in you like smoldering embers crawling up the edge of a sheet of paper, the smoke thick and burning in your throat.

You collapse on the bed next to her. She likes to be close afterwards. Your skin itches everywhere it touches hers, like it’s crawling with tiny bugs.

Her breathing evens out with time. You count the seconds. 137, she sits up. Gets a tissue from the side of the bed and wipes your seed from inside of her. You pull out of her and pray that it doesn’t take, that she won’t conceive a child through this, your child. She puts on her dress.

Her skin is flushed, her hair a bit messed, but no one will question her for it. They know what she does with you. They know what you are to her.

She leans over and kisses you slow, disgusting, on the mouth.

“Thank you, doll. That was just what I wanted. You know just how to relax a girl.”

You laugh weakly. You read between the lines you think she’s laying out for you. She won’t hurt Roxy today, because you satisfied her.

“Be good, boy. Try sleeping on the bed, would you?”

You nod.

She winks. Turns and leaves. Three heavy snaps of the three locks on your cell door, and then you hear her footsteps fade down the hall.

You don’t move until you hear the next set of doors open and close.

You get off the bed. You lay your torn clothes on the ground like a mat and you curl up onto them. And you wait.

 


End file.
